Ninth Circle
by Queensmoot
Summary: The worst spot in hell is reserved for those who betray. A morning in the life of the Burkle-Wyndam-Pryce household... but there's something not quite right.  W/L


**NINTH CIRCLE**_.  
"You hated yourself for being with me - or maybe, you just hated yourself for loving being with me."_

Wesley enters the kitchen with a spring in his step, humming tunelessly to himself – and finds his arms full of over-excited, babbling eight-year-old.

"Good morning, Naomi," he chokes, slightly winded from the force of his daughter's hug.

"Morning Daddy! Mommy made pancakes for breakfast, look!" and with that he finds himself being dragged over to the kitchen table, where there was a stack of pancakes big enough to feed a family of elephants.

"Yes, I could smell them dear, how lovely. Fred darling, are you making breakfast for the whole street or are you just really, really, really hungry?" he enquires, and his wife turns to him and grins lovingly, but he can see her body is tense with nerves.

"I guess I did make a few too many, but I was so preoccupied thinkin' about my class today and trying to make sure I could remember my lesson plan off-by-heart – I guess I must have just been on autopilot or something." She kisses him quickly on the cheek and goes to sit down at the table, but Wesley stops her, putting his hand on her shoulder gently and looking into her eyes.

"You are going to have a wonderful first day, Professor Burkle-Wyndam-Pryce. Your students will adore you and each and every one of them will be inspired by your brilliant mind." He tells her completely sincerely, and her limbs seem to lose a great deal of the tension they had been holding.

Fred grins, leans in and kisses him. He can feel her smile against his mouth and her lips are slightly sticky with maple syrup -

"Ewww, that's so gross!" Naomi shrieks, and her parents break apart laughing, sharing a look with each other. Wesley reaches down and affectionately ruffles her long hair.

"I think it's time I drove you to school, isn't it?" he says, and watches her baby doe eyes light up behind her glasses, the perfect blend of Fred and himself.

"Oh, wait, Wesley, before you go, there's a book I need from the basement for today, would you mind grabbing it for me?" Fred asks him, and he freezes, unconsciously tugging at the necklace he wears under his shirt, an uneasy feeling sliding into the pit of his stomach for some reason.

"Naomi's going to be late, dear, can't you get it while we're gone?"

"Wes, it's on the top shelf of the bookcase down there, you know I can't reach, silly!" she giggles and tips four pancakes onto her plate.

"Oh. Well, err, yes, I suppose I'll uh, I'll go and get it for you," he forces a smile but can't quite make it reach his eyes, and feels his heart beating irregularly in his chest as he turns towards the door.

He's not sure why, but he really, really doesn't want to go down to that basement. He looks back at Fred for a moment, but she just makes a shooing gesture at him.

"Come on Wesley, you don't want to make Naomi late!" she teases, grinning at him, a vision of pure angelic beauty, and because he could never deny her anything he forces himself to wrench open the door and move onto the top step, closing it behind him.

The door makes an ominous, booming thud sound as though it had been slammed, and although intellectually he knows he's in his own home, somehow he feels sure in his gut that this is a different, darker place altogether. Don't be a child, Wesley, he tells himself, and forces his feet down each step one at a time.

There's something strangely intoxicating about the air here, it creeps up on him as he descends and when he finally reaches the bottom he's deep in its thrall. There's a strange, heady scent, like lilies and smoke mingled with just a hint of arousal, overwhelming his senses and making him feel dizzy, malleable. He turns, desperately looking for the bookshelf and Fred's blasted book, but it's nowhere to be seen. In fact, all that's down here is...

"Hello, lover," Lilah croons from behind him, her voice like silk and sex, her breath impossibly hot against his ear. "Miss me?"

And then it hits him – or rather, she hits him, the awful, beautiful truth of her. The awful, excruciating truth of himself. The torture of knowing that this place exists and he loves it, this place where there's no right or wrong and all that matters is the raw, fierce passion, no, the _need_ to touch her, the need for her to touch him back.

"Always."

His voice sounds hoarse. It comes out as barely more than a croak, but he feels the word on his tongue and, hating himself, knows it to be true with every fibre of his being. She just laughs and presses herself against his back, teasing him with the illicit feel of her curves through layers of clothing, and turns his face to kiss him.

Fred tastes of maple syrup and sweetness and safety; Lilah tastes of ashes and smoke, and he can't get enough of her, deepening the kiss in an attempt to sate his hunger for her.

Arousal runs through his body like jolts of electricity and he shudders as she moves to nip at his earlobe with her teeth, as her fingers dance tauntingly up his thighs and toy with his zipper, knowing that no matter what he tells himself about his desires, this was the reality of who he was.

It's not a case of wanting, or of lusting; it's craving the sound of her breathy moans as he fucks her, it's welcoming the harsh sting of her insults and the sanctuary of her arms around him in equal measure, it's knowing that she knows every nasty, petty little corner of his heart and he knows every secret scrap of human decency she tries so hard to conceal. Lilah has wormed her way into everything that he is, like a cancer. His mind is drenched in her, his body responding instantly to even the slightest quirk of her mouth, or the hint of a spark of amusement in her eye.

"What's the matter lover, not feeling guilty about the wife and kid, are you?" she whispers, her lips are grazing his earlobe. He can hear the mirth behind the mock-concern in her voice and realises she already knows that the answer to her question is no.

He turns around, lifts her and pins her forcefully to the wall, nuzzling at her neck and delighting in the shortness of her breath and the feel of her legs sliding around his waist. He wishes he could want Fred like he was supposed to, wishes he could be _that_ Wesley and not the pathetic creature he knows in his heart - as Lilah knows in her heart - that he really is.

...but then Lilah looks him right in the eye and, never breaking their gaze, slips one hand down to his crotch, unzips his fly and strokes him with long, elegant fingers - and now he's definitely not thinking of anything but her.


End file.
